


Tipping the Scale

by Vexie



Category: Xiaolin Showdown (Cartoon)
Genre: Future Fic, Trauma, fifth dragon, possible implied pairings, rated for eventual violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2339696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexie/pseuds/Vexie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Excludes Xiaolin Chronicles; Set three years after Showdown ends, give or take) </p><p>       A fifth Dragon is called forth who is not inherently Xiaolin or Heylin. Both sides fight to win this fifth dragon to fight on their side. The problem, this Dragon is Jack Spicer, who has long since given up fighting for either of the sides--ever. He has left the world of Good and Evil behind in favor of...normalcy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a reboot of a fanfiction I wrote in '06/'07 on ff.net that is still getting hits entited "Pentagram." 
> 
> It's similar in many ways, but I fixed a lot of plot holes and, in my opinion, cleaned everything up a lot more. If you've read Pentagram (up until it's point of demise), you'll notice that I've changed the POV to Jack's instead of switching around. 
> 
> Expect updates maybe every other week; currently working 6 days a week and don't have a lot of actual computer time. I love you, but I'm not typing all of this out on my phone. XP I'm also alternating posting between this and Algernon's Boquet over in the Red VS Blue fandom. :3

           6:30 comes earlier than Jack remembers. Especially after spending most of the night in the mech labs. Jack fumbles blindly under his pillow until he locates his phone. He cracks an eye open long enough to see what the correct swipe pattern is and successfully puts his phone to snooze.

 

            6:45 comes too quickly. Jack is pretty sure he'd just closed his eyes again when his alarm sounds for the second time. Once more, he checks the pattern on his phone’s screen so he can turn off the sound. It’s supposed to be a puzzle that requires the user to wake up enough to solve it and stop the sound. It might as well just be a horizontal swipe for Jack. He keeps meaning to tinker with the program and complicate it a little bit but he never thinks about it when he’s awake. Maybe he should write it down now before he falls back asleep. 

 

            7 AM inspires a colorful selection of cursing. Jack flings himself from bed, falling to the floor as his leg catches in the sheets. He hunts through the clothes on the floor until he finds the least grease-stained pair of jeans, a remotely clean t-shirt, and his red hoodie. He puts them on while stumbling down the hall to the kitchen. The cabinet yields a pack of Pop Tarts that will serve as his breakfast and a bottle of Sunny Delight comes from the fridge. Jack shoves his feet into a pair of worn red low tops sitting next to the refrigerator, grabs his backpack, and heads out the front door.

            A few seconds later, Jack slams the door back open and stomps to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. A growled “fuck” accompanies each step. He opens the cabinet and grabs the blue pill case. He pops the “Tuesday” tab open and dumps the contents into his mouth. He tosses the case back toward the cabinet without looking and races out the door again.

           

            7:32 and Jack is rolling into class. The instructor—a frazzled graduate student in her 20s—gives the clock on the wall and then him a look of pointed disapproval. Jack arranges his features into the most penitent expression he can muster until she looks away. He doesn't really care. It’s just introductory English, after all. All he needs is a passing grade and then he can substitute Technical Writing for English 200 and be done with it. Why worry about stupid gen eds?

            The instructor adjusts her large plastic glasses and starts ranting—uh, that is, _lecturing_ about the damage the internet has done to English language. Jack begins to sleep back into sleep mode. His eyes start to close and his head slips forward. In an attempt to recover himself, Jack turns the movement into a purposeful glance out the window.

            This is the moment when his heart stops. A bass drum beats its way past his ears and drops into the bottom of his stomach. Air forces itself into his lungs and back out.

            No.

            Nononono

            It can’t be. There’s no way.

            It was just a-a-what, Jack? What else has that long, undulating shape?

            But…

            No, it's them. 

            But _how_? How did they find him? How—

            Everyone is looking at him. No, let’s be exact. Staring. Everyone is staring at him. The instructor is smirking and Jack is 92.335% sure she just made another Jack-Spicer-The-Poet reference like she has every day since the beginning of the semester.

            “Sorry,” Jack mumbles, his ears turning hot and red. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for, honestly. Did he say any of that out loud? Was he hyperventilating? Or did he just knock his Sunny-D off the table? He leans down to pick up the bottle and breathe without everyone’s eyes on him. His heart is still hammering against his rib cage so hard that Jack checks to see if it’s visible through his shirt. Of course it isn't. 

            Jack shakes slightly through the rest of class. He isn’t tired anymore. Adrenaline courses through his veins. His classmates sneak glances at him until he stares each of them down. More than one person pales when he meets their eyes. He can’t imagine what they’re seeing—insanity? Instability? Or are they just seeing the raw panic he fights until 8:45 finally arrives?

            Jack isn’t the first one out the door, but he’s a close third. He takes the nearest exit and darts around the side of the building, away from curious eyes. There, he leans against the cool brick wall and tries to remember how to breathe. He pulls up the hood of his hoodie against the slightly chilly breeze toying with his ears.

            It’s not them. That’s impossible, Jack tells himself, mouthing the words to try to make them real.

            Come on, Jack. Think. Facts only. What are the facts? Fact #1: He hasn’t given anyone any reason to chase him for three years (but god, that last showdown…what if--) _no._ Facts only.

            Fact #2: He’s on the other side of the planet at a huge university in America. Why would they even think to look here? (Please, as if they couldn’t find him if they really--)

            Fact #3: He’s nobody now. A no-name student who’s just over-worked and wiped out. He’s exhausted (Fact 3a). What does Dr. Barry always tell him? Get more sleep. Sleep deprivation breeds anxiety and

            Fact #4: He was falling asleep. It was just a nightmare.

            Not real.

            Jack is breathing normally—or close enough to it. Most of his shaking has stopped. He stands and heads toward the student union. He can't afford to fall asleep  like that again today. Time for some caffeine.

           

Other students are moving around by this time. The early morning crowd is joined by a groggy mid-morning crowd. Jack has to wait in a line to purchase his drink. He listens to the buzz of sleepy college students without much interest.

            “Hey! What’re y’all doin’?” A deep voice with a heavy Texan accent rings out above the others. Jack feels the electric spike of fear. He looks over his shoulder carefully. The owner of the voice is a tall, thin boy wearing a Metallica t-shirt and a pair of ripped up jeans. The boy continues talking loudly to the other people who run over to join him. Jack sighs and cradles his Monster can.

            Relax, he almost whispers out loud. Not here.

            Jack takes his drink outside He sits on the front steps of the Union and gets his C# book out of his bag—he has a quiz in an hour and his instructor is getting tired of the shortcuts Jack uses that “shouldn’t work.” Though he's pretty sure his instructor is only annoyed because he doesn't  _understand_ Jack's shortcuts, he'd agreed to play by the book for a while. No matter how slow it was. 

Jack opens his book and frowns at the page. He squints There’s a flicker—barely noticeable but he can see it. The shadows seem to stutter—this is familiar. He knows this. What does this mean? He _knows_ this!

“Dude!”

Jack jumps a mile as his lab partner flops down on the step next to him.

“You should probably lay off of that stuff,” Simon says, tapping the Monster can.

“What? Why?” Jack asks, pulling the can away from his friend's reach.

“You look a little paranoid—I thought you were going to have a heart attack when I sat down,” Simon says.

Anxiety. Panic. Paranoia. Printed words on crisp white paper clipped to a metal board flash across Jack’s mind.

“Nah, that’s why I got it. I’m wiped. No more procrastinating,” Jack says over his memories. He laughs for Simon. He can’t quite keep his voice from shaking, but Simon either doesn’t notice or doesn’t say anything. Maybe he thinks it's just a side effect of his apparent caffeine abuse. 

“Yeah yeah. So we keep vowing.” Simon grins, pushing his glasses up his thin nose.

“Lab this afternoon?” Jack asks.

“Yeah. We need to record the rest of the vowels for the voice,” Simon says, scrubbing hand through his hair in frustration. “This is the dumbest idea,” he adds.

“Uh, no,” Jack counters. He starts to relax in earnest. The flickers are easier to ignore when Simon’s there. “This idea is brilliant. We’re gonna pass this class, get a patent, and put one of these in every dorm in America.”

“Yeah yeah. The Asshole Microwave—never wake up to fire alarms because some stupid freshman burned popcorn again!” Simon says with a flourish.

“We need to work on that slogan,” Jack says.

He hesitates for a moment.

“Hey, does the lighting out here seem weird to you?” Jack asks. Simon squints at the morning sun.

“Nah, why?” he asks.

Jack shrugs, unwilling to say any more. Simon laughs.

“You need to get some sleep, bro. We’ll call it early tonight,” he says. The clock on the old history building starts to chime 9AM.

“Shit! Gotta go!” Simon jumps to his feet.

“Calc!” he shouts over his shoulder as he tears across the quad, serving as both farewell and explanation.

“Later!” Jack calls after him, shaking his head and smiling. 

    The world seems more real now. Jack gets in twenty minutes of fairly undisturbed study time, then packs up and heads toward his class. As he nears Willard Hall, the flicker starts up again – stronger, somehow. Jack stumbles slightly, tripping over nothing at all. He scowls at the ground and prepares to curse at it. 

“Hey! Hold up there, pardner!”

There's a hand on his shoulder now. Jack freezes.

Metallica kid. Please let it be Metallica kid. Please. He’s going to turn around and it’ll be him and then Jack will feel like a total idiot for all of this panic and the way his knees and spine feel.

Jack turns around and stares up into an unfortunately familiar pair of blue eyes—eyes that widen in response. Jack can’t breathe again. The large blond cowboy in front of him doesn’t seem to notice Jack’s apparent asphyxiation. He gives a low whistle.

“Well I’ll be,” Clay comments.

A strong-framed Asian boy pushes past Clay with far too much energy. He has a mixture of surprise and dismay on his face, as if he just discovered that his parents hadn't gotten him a new dog for Christmas, but found his long-lost one.  

“Jack Spicer!” He cries. Omi, Jack remembers. The kid’s name is Omi. “But how can this be?”

Jack forces air into his lungs.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” he manages to choke out. His voice cracks.

“Starting to wonder that myself,” remarks a tall Brazilian in need of a shave. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and glares at Jack, who recoils.

“Cut it out, Rai,” Kimiko steps out from behind Clay and Raimundo, narrowing her eyes at “Rai.” Jack’s stomach twists. He fights to keep his pop tarts off the pavement. She turns blue eyes toward him, brushing a strand of glossy black hair behind her ear. She wears it down now and--

Nope. No. Can’t.

“Jack,” Kimiko begins in an overly patient voice.

No no no.

“We need to talk to you,” she continues.

“No. Not doing this. I’ve got class,” Jack shakes his head and stumbles backward. 

“Jack Spicer! Wait!” Omi calls out but Jack is turning and walking away.

He’s already dreaming about taking the pills in the green case in his medicine cabinet and going to sleep. They call his name but he ignores them. He focuses on the pitted concrete moving beneath his feet. He’s counting footsteps and waiting for the safe threshold of the building. To return to _his_ life.

The fabric at the back of his hoodie tightens and pulls. The hand that is pulling him backward is small but strong. 

Oh no.

Jack stops walking but he doesn’t turn to see who it is, either. He knows.

“Jack, would you please listen? It’s important,” Kimiko says.

Oh no, her voice is too soft. Her hand is too warm. He can’t even really feel it but it is.

Jack closes his eyes. Breathes in, then out. How did it go? What’d he used to say?

She says his name again, this time as a question. He takes another deep breath, throwing his shoulders backward and raising his chin at the old, familiar angle. He spins on his heel, breaking Kimiko’s grip. He gives them all a cocky glare and opens his mouth to—he doesn’t know. Cuss them out, give ‘em what for, tell ‘em off…

His eyes meet Kimiko’s.

“Fine,” he spits.

Wait, what? _Fine?_ It’s not fine! But the word is out there and they’re all delighted. How can he repair this?

“But _after_ class,” he adds, helping himself not at all. Somewhere in his memory, a lanky teenager is laughing his ass off. The four monks simply stand on the sidewalk and stare at him in varying degrees of suspicion. Apparently, it’s against the rules for him to have his own terms to their game. Oh well.

“Go wait for me by the big tornado statue, all right? Stop being so weird, people are staring,” Jack says, rolling his eyes. He turns back toward the building and starts walking again, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. 

Only when he’s sitting in the desk three rows back, against the east wall, does he allow his legs to collapse into the jelly they truly are. He drops his face into his hands.

Great. Perfect. Now he has to actually sit down and _talk_ to them. He considers making a break for it, but the thought of them hunting him down again is too real and too terrifying. He just hopes to the gods he can make it out of this unscathed.

 

The hour passes in a blur of cold sweat, shaking limbs, and half remembered phrases. Jack has no idea what he wrote on the quiz or what the lecture was about, but he thinks he remembers how his confident swagger went, and how to laugh derisively. He doesn't have many notes written down, but he’s armed to the teeth with insults and sarcasm. Is he ready? Not really, no. But, Jack thinks as he throws back his shoulders and shoves his hands carelessly into his pockets, carelessness used to be part of his persona. 

Jack makes his way outside amid the swarm of students going to their next class. Predictably, the four monks are keeping watch near the door. Showtime.

“You guys suck at following directions,” Jack remarks, then smirks. “Guess that’s why _I’m_ one getting a degree around here.”

They’re all staring at him with mouths open. He frowns.

“The hell is wrong with you guys?” he asks, studying each face for clues.

“Hair…” Raimundo says stupidly and gestures vaguely over his own head. Jack reaches up and touches his hair in confusion. It’s all mussed up from the hood and he knows he kind of needs a haircut but—oh. Jack grins.

“Oh what, you thought the firetruck red was _natural_?” He rubs his dark brown hair so it stands on end. “You guys are dumber than I thought.”

Jack starts off down the sidewalk, their dumbfounded (and somewhat ashamed) faces giving him the upper hand he needs to keep going. _This_ is how it felt to be evil. 

“Come on, losers. Let’s talk somewhere where I don’t actually know people,” he calls over his shoulder.

He shoves his hands back into his pockets and drops into a lanky saunter. As the Xiaolin monks follow him, Jack congratulates himself on getting this far—none of them have figured out that it’s taking most of his willpower not to bolt, and all of his energy to keep up the snark. He leads them to a group of picnic tables near the tornado shaped statue he’d named earlier. There are a few students sitting at some of the tables. Jack picks the table furthest away from them. He sits down and the monks crowd around the other side. Jack raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, so talk. What do you want? I don’t have any of your stupid Wu. I’ve been clean for three years,” he says, holding out his hands to emphasize his point.

“Yeah about that, what have you been doing?” Kimiko asks.

Jack gestures to the campus around him.

“This, pretty much,” he says.

“For three years? You suddenly vanished to go to _school?”_ Raimundo’s mouth curls into a disbelieving sneer.

“I retired.” Jack’s reply is clipped. “Took some time off to relax. Then I decided to settle down. Go to school, get a degree. You know. Be normal.”

Hospital, rehab, reintegration, his mind chants. He’s trying not to remember.

“Well that’s about to change,” Clay says with a grin. “We’re here to bring you back to the temple.”

“What? Why? I already told you—I’m clean!” Jack protests. Raimundo snorts.

“We’re not here to collect Shen Gong Wu,” Kimiko says, glaring pointedly at Raimundo. “We’re here to train you as a Xiaolin warrior.”

Jack frowns.

“Didn’t we already try that once? Pretty sure it didn’t work out that well,” he says, looking at Omi for confirmation. The young teen nods gravely.

“But this time it is fated! You have been called as a Xiaolin Dragon,” he says with all the mystical gusto he can muster. Jack lets out a bark of laughter.

“Yeah? Try again, Cueball. I know the drill. Four elements, four dragons,” he says, crossing his arms.

“That’s what we thought too. But it turns out a fifth element got called up,” Clay begins.

“The Dragon of Spirit!” Omi interrupts, dark eyes sparkling.

“And you guys think that’s _me_?” Jack stares at each of them in turn.

Three nods and an excited “Yes!” from Omi respond. For a few moments, Jack can only gape in silence. Memories collide in his head and he lets out a bubble of near hysterical laughter.

“You are pleased!” Omi claps his hands together.

 _“Hell_ no!” Jack says, a little too loudly. Some exhausted looking students frown at him from their huddle over a rather hefty textbook, dark-rimmed eyes startled.

“You are…not pleased?” Omi confirms.

“You guys are _insane_. I’m not going anywhere with you. This has to be a mistake,” Jack says.

“I wish,” Raimundo spits, eyebrows heavy over his dark eyes. “We checked the compass a ton of times. It’s you.”

“The…compass?” Jack stares blankly. Clay holds up an ornate golden compass—its design screams Shen Gong Wu, but it’s not one Jack remembers.

“We used the Compass of Shinabi and the Golden Finger to pinpoint the right person,” Clay explains.

“Still took forever,” Raimundo grumbles.

The Golden finger. That one he knows. It freezes everything for thirty seconds—Jack’s eyes widen. The flickers. That’s what they were! That’s why he knew that feeling! Ice slides down his spine.

“Well pick someone else. I’m done playing magical adventures with you nerds,” Jack says.

“It don’t work like that,” Clay says softly.

“It’s gonna have to. My answer is no,” Jack says.

“You don’t get to say no!” Kimiko says. “You’ve either got to fight for light or for darkness.”

“You can’t _make_ me join the fight again!” Jack is standing now. When did that happen. He ignores it and powers forward.

“I already tried this. You remember. I failed. It didn’t work. I’m not a Dragon. I’m not your guy!”

“You were chosen. This is your destiny,” Omi’s voice drips with saintly compassion. Jack wants to hit him.

“Bullshit,” he spits instead.

“Look, nobody likes this setup,” Kimiko says loudly, trying to gain some control of the situation. “But this is what we have to work with. We’ll never win unless we fight as one. We need you, Jack.” She tries to give him a warm smile, but Jack won’t have it. He laughs without humor.

“You _need_ me? Wow. After all this time, now you need me. Well it’s just too damn bad that you all made my life a living hell back in the day, isn’t it? I’m not helping you with anything!” he snarls. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the other students rush to gather their things and leave.

“Grow up!” Raimundo is standing now, too. “Don’t you even try to play pity party with us, Spicer. You deserved so much worse than anything we did to you. After all the shit you pulled? Please. If you hadn’t been such an evil—“

 _“Rai!_ ” Kimiko’s voice is sharp. Her arm moves lightning fast, flames licking her fingertips when her hand comes in contact with Raimundo’s chest. He winces but smalls silent. There’s a beat. Two. The monks all look at Jack.

Jack says nothing. Jaw clenched, he reaches down and grabs his backpack. Then, slinging it over his shoulder, he silently walks away.

Inside his head, he's chanting. Don’t turn around. Don’t look over your shoulder. No matter what, just keep moving and don’t you dare look back. Focus on your legs. Come on, now. 

Right—breathe in—left—breathe out—right—in—left—out.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the tech labs under Bundschu. It takes him four tries to swipe his student ID at the door of his favorite lab. He could have easily just picked the electronic lock in that time, but he doesn’t. He struggles with the buggy card reader because dammit, he’s not evil anymore. And he’s not good either. He sucked at both sides, no matter what he tried. He’s nobody and he likes it that way.

The price of succeeding is too high.


	2. Chapter 2

 “Holy shit, dude!”

Jack jumps and turns around. Simon is staring at him, jaw dropped. No—not at him. Jack follows his gaze.  _Oh._  

            “Uh,” Jack struggles to find an explanation for the computer tower sitting in pieces on the floor.

            “What did you do? You’re gonna get kicked out and then how am I going to graduate?” Simon moans.

            “I can put it back together. It just needed some work,” Jack says quickly. “You know, the cooling system was pretty obsolete and I’m pretty sure we could distribute power better.”

            He doesn’t mention adding some parts of his own design. It’s not like it was his fault—the machine just wasn’t running the way he needed it to. Besides, he didn’t do any detectable damage—no one can access any of his “special features” without both his school _and_ his personal login information. Like they could even get to the point where they could use that information.

            “Okay,” Simon draws out the second syllable. “I was going to ask why you skipped class but clearly you’re having a nervous breakdown or something and destroying everything in the lab, so I guess that answers that question.”

            “I’m fine. I was just working,” Jack says. He looks around until he locates the clock on the wall. Five and a half hours have passed. Maybe fine isn't the right word. 

            “Hey, maybe you should go home and relax. We can record later and I can work on some of the other stuff by myself,” Simon says.

            Jack starts to protest, but Simon gives him a pointed look over his glasses.

            “Dude, seriously. Go home.”

            Jack sighs, but he nods.

            “All right. Just let me fix these real fast,” he agrees.

            He starts putting the tower back together quickly and effortlessly. Simon watches for a few moments, then shakes his head.

            “Are you even looking when you do that?” he asks. Jack shrugs. He really isn’t.

            Simon laughs.

            “Damn,” he says. “What are you even doing here?”

            Simon isn’t the first person to ask Jack that question. Many of his instructors and advisers have wondered the same thing. Jack’s answer is canned at this point. He tosses Simon a grin.

            “Spending all my money on a little piece of paper that says I’m as good as I say I am,” he says.

            Simon grins at that, like most people do. He reaches out a fist for a knuckle bump, which Jack provides.

            “Don’t forget your old lab partner when you’re in the penthouse, bro,” Simon says.

            “Done,” Jack responds. “Don’t stay out all night.”

            He sets the tower back where it belongs and hooks it back up. With a last wave at Simon, Jack grabs his backpack and heads out the door.

 

            The campus is emptying out and golden going on orange in the late afternoon light. Even though it's mid-October, the temperature is starting to drop already. Jack sighs and flips his hood back up over his hair again. To be fair, Jack doesn’t really _want_ to go home. He’d prefer to spend the night working. When he’s building, Jack can block out everything else. His therapist wanted him to try art or sewing or something “gentle,” but Jack's happiest knee deep in wires and hardware. It was worth what it took to get back to the lab. Everything just makes sense when it’s all in code. But there’s no way Jack could get through the night pretending he’s okay with Simon there.

            Jack tries to picture the conversation as he walks the shadowy sidewalks. How do you explain to a mostly normal nerd like Simon that you’re upset ( _that’s_ and understatement) because four multi-racial Xiaolin monks with supernatural Dragon powers came to enlist you for an epic battle between good and evil? Stuff like that earned him several months in a sterile hospital environment, drugged up and finger-painting.

            Besides, even if he did manage to convince Simon that all that stuff was real, Jack would have to go into the even _more_ complicated reason _why_ the idea upset him. After all, what nerdy kid doesn’t dream that he’ll be chosen to be (more or less) a superhero? Explaining that would mean explaining how when he was a kid, he’d tried to be a supervillain and teamed up with the thousand year old ghost of a witch and a (also thousand year old) dragon warlord to try and take over the world, which involved going up against the afore mentioned monks in supernatural combat on a weekly basis.

            Yeah. That sounds pretty sane. Not at all like it came out of a comic book.

            Jack sighs, pressing the button to unlock his car as he approaches it. Even if all that stuff _did_ make sense, what then? Why give people a reason to alienate him further? Simon is already figuring out that Jack’s perfectly capable of completing their projects for the next few semesters in a single afternoon. Pretty soon yet another “friend” will either be terrified of him or be another gooey-eyed fanboy that just wants Jack to do his work for him. No matter how much the work relaxes him, Jack’s going to have to slow down.

           

            Jack drives across town to his apartment. It’s a nice apartment in a newer complex. He’s got two bedrooms all to himself and an en suite washer/dryer combo that he may or may not have “taught” to sort, switch, and fold his laundry for him. The only downside is that it’s four floors up and no elevator. And that sort of addition isn’t exactly something you can hide from the landlord like his household appliance enhancements.

            It's not _that_ big of a deal. Jack is almost used to the climb after having lived in that apartment for just over a year, though not enough to keep him from getting winded part way up. The building’s shared stray cat (a handsome tuxedo Jack fondly calls Penguin) appears and leaps nimbly up ahead of Jack, looking down at him as if asking him what’s so hard about a few dozen stairs. Jack wheezes curses at the feline good naturedly.

            He stops at his front door and pauses. The back of his neck prickles. Something’s off. The cat meows impatiently—having chosen Jack as his care giver for the night. 

            “Shh,” Jack says. Slowly, he reaches for the door and turns the knob. It doesn’t move. The door appears to be locked, just like he left it. Jack breathes and unlocks it. His stomach drops as the sound of virtual gunfire alerts him to the fact that he is—as he suspected—not alone.

            Jack creeps across the kitchenette, closing the door carefully and silently behind him. He peeks over the breakfast bar and into the living room. 

             _Fuck_. He almost turns around and creeps right back out the door. 

            It’s Kimiko. She’s sitting on his couch, playing his Xbox and drinking his soda. She’s so engrossed in her game that she doesn’t notice him. Jack sets down his backpack and stands up. He leans on the countertop and drops his face into his hands as he tries to decide what he wants to do. Okay, well, he knows what he _wants_ to do. He wants to go to bed. He’s suddenly more exhausted than he’s ever been in his life. The last thing he wants to do is deal with Kimiko in his apartment. Part of him wonders mildly if he should call the police before she notices him.

            Penguin, however, is thrilled by the fact that there is another human to give him attention. He pads right over and hops up into Kimiko’s lap. She jumps with a little squeak, then pauses her game. 

            “Hey, Kitty!” she coos, petting him obligingly. “Where have you been hiding?”

            Jack’s pretty sure from her tone that she’s searched his whole apartment. That's a nasty notion. There are too many things she could have found that Jack doesn't want to think about. He’s still sort of leaning toward calling the cops. But he takes a deep breath and raises his head.

            “He came in with me,” Jack says. His voice is too loud. Kimiko jumps again. Her movement spooks Penguin and sends him to the floor. He stares up at the humans indignantly. Jack raises his eyebrows at Kimiko when she finally turns to look at him.

            “When did you get here?” she asks.

            “Wrong question. When did _you_ get here?” Jack takes a moment to raise his eyebrows at her, then walks around the counter.

           Each step is more careful than he lets on. He breathes in through his nose and out through barely parted lips. Though there is plenty of room on the couch, Jack straddles one of the bar stools backward. Kimiko's face takes on a pinkish tinge, but she doesn't reply.

            “So where are the other Power Rangers?” Jack asks, looking around as if he expects them to pop out of a drawer or crawl out from under the couch. Kimiko shakes her head.

            “Gone,” she says. “They went back to the temple.” A touch of bitterness lets Jack know that the team hadn’t parted on the best of terms. But why? Did she draw the short straw or something? Even if she had, why would they even leave  _her_ here with  _him?_

            “Did they find out about your penchant for breaking and entering and kick you off the good guys team?” Jack asks, masking his thoughts. “How’d you even find out where I live?’

            Kimiko rolls her eyes, picking up the discarded controller.

            “Please. The school directory is not that hard to get into,” she says, exiting the game and shutting down the console. Jack accepts this with a shrug. She’s not wrong.

            “Okay, so _why_ are you here?” he asks.

            “You know why. I’m not leaving until I get some answers,” Kimiko says. “You’re going to actually talk to me.”

            Jack looks down his nose at her, locking his jaws against the hysterical laughter that seems to be following him around. A long heart-felt conversation with Kimiko would probably kill him--or get him killed, as the case might be. 

            “I am?” he asks finally. Not his best comeback, but he has to spit _something_ out for her. 

            Kimiko sits back and grins, crossing her arms over her chest. She thinks she has the upper hand. Jack tries not to remember that _this_ is the grin that used to make him think that she could be evil if he'd really tried hard enough.

            “I told you. I’m not leaving until I get what I want. I'll just keep coming back. I can find you, no matter where you run,” Kimiko says.

           Yeah. Definitely evil.

            “I already know what you want from me. And I'm pretty sure I made my answer clear,” Jack says. “What’s the point in going over all of this again?”

            “You didn’t even consider it. You just stormed off,” Kimiko starts. “If you would just—“

            “Oh, you want me to consider it?” Jack interrupts, sitting up straight. He screws up his face into a caricature of deep thought and makes loud “Hmmmm” noises. Kimiko stares at him, confident smile gone. Her mouth forms several syllables, but she doesn't say anything. 

            And just like that, Jack stops.

            “No,” he says simply. He gets up and walks to the front door. He flings it open, calling out:

            “Thanks for stopping by, have a good trip!”

            A middle aged woman with her arms full of groceries stops on the landing and stares at Jack in confusion.

            “Not you,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

            Kimiko is standing but she’s not heading for the door. Her eyes are narrowed and her hands are in fists at her sides.

            “No, we’re not done here, Jack,” she says.

            Jack sighs and lets the door close. He leans against it. No, of course they weren't. At least they could cut the games. 

            “Okay, fine. Talk,” Jack says. Each word drains him a little more. His voice sounds tired--does Kimiko hear it? 

            “Look, what we said earlier is true. Something’s happening and the Xiaolin magic or the powers that be or whatever chose a fifth dragon and it’s you. That’s fate, whether you like it or not,” Kimiko begins in a calm voice that only contains the barest hints of strain. Jack takes a breath to speak but Kimiko holds up a hand.

            “But I get it. I get where you’re coming from. I wouldn’t believe it either. I'd smell a trap a mile away if my nemeses came and invited me to their team. So here’s what I’m asking. Just come back with me. Come back and talk to the monks and see the prophecy for yourself. Don’t make a decision yet. Let them talk to you and then make a choice.” Kimiko holds out her hands in what Jack assumes is a peaceful gesture.

            He shakes his head.

            “No, you don’t get it, Princess. Even if I came back with you and your guys proved that I was the king of the Xiaolins—crown waiting and all—I would still would never _ever_ come with you,” Jack says, icy venom permeating the statement.

            “But _why?_ ” Kimiko demands.

            “Why? You really have to ask? Sweet, when I told you it didn’t work out last time, I’m not talking about flunking out. I spent maybe three days with you guys and you made it pretty clear that I wasn’t really welcome. You isolated me, humiliated me, teased and pranked me, and used me as a dancing monkey and a servant. I did whatever you guys asked and you never once treated me like a teammate. At best, I was Omi’s pet. What makes you think it’ll be any different this time? And don’t you dare feed me any of that fate bullshit. I saw the way you guys looked at me. Fate doesn’t change that you guys hate my guts. Fate doesn’t change everything that happened. I’m not doing that anymore,” Jack says. He’s shaking now, but it doesn't matter.

            “I’m sorry, Jack—“ Kimiko starts, her voice soft.

            “No, forget it. Too little too late, sweet pea. After what you did to me--“

            Jack’s face is stinging and he’s not sure why. His eyes take a moment to come back into focus. Kimiko is a lot closer to him than she had been. Her right arm is still extended; her left hand is at a fist at her hip. It’s then that he realizes the stinging place on his face is sort of hand shaped.

            “You don’t get to guilt trip me, Jack.” Kimiko’s voice is low. “After what _you_ did to _me_ , you don’t get to do that. If anyone should get to play that card, it's me. And I’m still standing here, asking you to come be a part of our team, where I'll have to look at your face every single day.”

            Jack couldn’t speak if he tried. He doesn’t try. She’s got him backed up against the door and the door is all that’s holding him up. He can’t look away from her small, hard face. Her eyes flicker back and forth, searching his eyes for…for…what? Finally, she sighs. She clearly hasn't found whatever it is.

            “Think about that, Jack. This isn’t over,” Kimiko says. She motions and somehow, Jack’s legs move him forward, away from the door. Her eyes meet his one more time, then she's gone at last.

            Penguin meows, having not yet been fed. Jack wobbles to the cabinet and gets him a can of food, opens it, and slides down onto the floor. The can slides from his fingers. Penguin trots over to feast. Jack stares at the slightly greasy grain of his jeans. He’s not seeing anything in particular. Nothing here, anyway. Nothing in this time.


	3. Midnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the responses I've gotten so far~! I really appreciate all of the feedback! 
> 
> If you guys see anything that doesn't make sense or you have questions about or whatever, you're always welcome to let me know. Drop a comment or an ask on Tumblr (I'm Vexie-Chan over there, fyi) and I'll do what I can to clear stuff up. :3 
> 
> For now, read on!!

At some point, he goes to bed.

Well. A better description might be that he drags himself from the kitchen floor and dumps his mostly-useless body onto his bed. He curses to himself and maneuvers his body into the bathroom so he can take the pills in the green case, then re-deposits himself on top of the covers. He stares at the ceiling.

Pajamas. He should wear pajamas.

No, that’s too much trouble, forget it. Pajamas are too trivial for Jack to deal with right now.

He’s too big right now, he thinks. Too exposed. He curls into a ball on his side, facing out. Penguin roams around his room, working on his cat business of sniffing shoes and crawling into things. Jack’s eyes follow the cat’s movements but his mind barely registers the busy feline.

            A dragon. He’s a dragon.

            What did they call him? The Dragon of Spirit?

            His own element—his own calling.

            It’s stupid. He used to want this more than anything. He used to think that one day he’d get to run off with an actual group of kids who actually wanted him around. He never would have admitted it, of course, but he used to dream about what it would be like to actually live as an equal at the Temple—away from people who hated him and disrespected him. From people who he either had to grovel for attention from or demonstrate his dominance over. He used to fly over there during slow days with no plots to hatch or Wu to find and spy on them, playing or exercising together like a bunch of mismatched siblings. He’d sit from wherever he hid and burn with jealousy and hate all of them for it.

            But no, it was never him. He wasn’t chosen.

            He wasn’t wanted.

            Back then…there was no way he would ever be part of that group. He’d tried once, and it hadn’t worked. They didn’t want him there.  

            And then the things he did…he doesn’t deserve to be chosen now.

            He gave that chance away.

            Ruined it.  

            Over and over he hears gunfire and the thump of a body on the ground. He curls tighter, hiding from the memory.  

            No.

            He’s not good enough to be a dragon.

            He never had been and he’s definitely not now.

            Finally, Jack sighs and stretches out, extracting himself from his own curl of limbs. Besides, he’s out of the business. He’s given up the struggle. The world will never be his to rule or to save. He’s not the hero and he’s not the villain. Not anymore. He’s just a guy with a knack for robotics. He’s nothing now.

            This is Jack’s mantra. Over and over. He’s nothing, no one.

             Beat by beat his heart starts to slow its pace.

            No one.

            Nothing.

            It gets easier to breathe, little by little.

            Jack sighs deeply. Penguin comes to curl up on his chest.

            And he hears the door open and close softly. Jack freezes, listening to footsteps echo through the kitchenette. She’s back already? It’s the middle of the night—but Jack hears more than one voice speaking in low tones. She’s brought back reinforcements—the liar!  

            Silently, Jack nudges Penguin off of his chest and swings his feet to the floor. His hands curl into fists as he stands straight, shoulders back. Fear and anxiety become anger. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He holds his head up and wills every ounce of spoiled rich kid he’s loathed for all these years into his expression and movements. Thus prepared, Jack strides out into the main room of the apartment.

            “I thought you said you were alone,” Jack begins in his haughtiest voice, but stops.

            It’s not Kimiko.

            Nor is it any of the other Xiaolin  monks.

            Looming over him is the scowling, cross-armed figure of Chase Young. His golden eyes flash at Jack’s tone, eyebrows lowering in displeasure. By his side but not quite on his arm is the willowy form of WuYa, a smirk curling her painted lips.

            “Hello, Jack,” she purrs.

            “What do you want?” Jack can control most of the squeak of his voice, but not all of it.

            “We’re not here to hurt you, J ack. It’s time to come home,” WuYa says. “We’ve missed you—“

            “Stop!” Jack puts his hands out in front of him to accent his command. This is too much. WuYa’s smirk falls from her lips, replaced with a surprised “O”.

            “Don’t patronize me,” Jack says wearily. “Just tell me what you want from me and get out of my apartment.”

            “You ungrateful—“ WuYa’s green eyes spark as she moves toward Jack, raising her hands with their sharpened nails as if to swipe at him. Chase catches her violet sleeve, the barest hint of a smile dancing across his face.

            “Now, now, WuYa. Temper,” he says, his voice every bit as smooth and cold as Jack remembers. WuYa exhales but lowers her claw-like hands and retreats behind Chase.

            Jack should be afraid. Part of his mind knows this. He should be worried about whatever these two have planned for him. That part of his mind throws actions at his nervous system, but he’s too tired to obey. He’s already drained. So he stares at Chase and meets his eyes without flinching, waiting for…wahtever’s coming next.

            “Your nerve has improved,” Chase observes, making conversation as he takes a step toward Jack. “Though your lifestyle is pathetically _boring_ now. Don’t tell me—you denounced all of your ways after—“

            “Yes, I did.” Jack cuts him off. _Don’t say it_. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if those words are said out loud. Chase raises both eyebrows, but gets the message.

            “I suppose by your initial reaction to our presence that the Xiaolin got to you first,” he continues instead. “So, you know what you are, now.”

            Jack recoils. Chase, too. Maybe they aren’t lying to him.

            “I know what they think I am,” Jack says. “But it’s not me. It can’t be.” For a desperate moment, Jack looks up at Chase as he had when the immortal was his mentor. For just a moment, he craves a lecture on how foolish he had been to trust the Xiaolin—how they had only been trying to corrupt him to their ways. Unlike those days, he just wants Chase to tell him how special he’s not. For the first time, that accusation would be more than welcome.

            But even after the moment has passed, the lecture does not come. Chase laughs.

            “As impossible as it seems, it’s true. You, Spicer, are the Dragon of Spirit,” he announces.

            Jack crumples a little. Somewhere in the back of his head, he’s surprised. He didn’t think he had any more emotion left in him.

            “No, I’m not,” he whispers. Can’t be.

            “But you are,” WuYa says with glee, almost mocking him with her curling grin and dancing eyes.

            “I assume you rejected the Xiaolin’s ridiculous offer—whatever it was,” Chase says.

            Jack nods vaguely. He rubs his face with both hands, then buries them in his hair. This isn’t happening. He knows what’s coming and this is _not_ happening. His eyes go out of focus as the offers start.

            “Good boy, Jack! Come with us. We can use your gifts to spread darkness and the Heylin way,” WuYa has started purring at him again.

            “We can help you reach your full potential,” Chase says. “In turn you will help us rule over the realms of Earth and beyond.”

            “Come back home with us,” WuYa slides forward to put a hand on his shoulder.

            “You are finally worthy of being my apprentice,” Chase says, nodding at him with bemused approval. And Jack has had enough.

            “Just stop,” he says. His voice is louder than it should be. His last word seems to echo slightly.

            WuYa’s hand tightens on Jack’s shoulder as her head whips toward Chase for his reaction.

            “I thought this was what you wanted,” Chase says. Puzzlement is rapidly evolving into annoyance.

            “No, I don’t. Get out of my apartment,” Jack says. “Please.”

            His “rich kid” demeanor is in place. His tone is cold, but firm. There is no room, he thinks, for argument.

            “I don’t think you understand.” Chase shoves WuYa out of the way. She glares at him but he doesn’t seem to notice. He leans in close to Jack.

            “I’m not asking. You will return with us and you will be my apprentice,” Chase growls. Jack stares up at him.

            “And if I don’t?” Jack asks.

            Good, good plan. Threaten the immortal warlord. That sounds awesome. Somewhere in Jack’s mind, he’s laughing at himself, almost hysterically. He’s going to die tonight, probably. And he’s got no one to blame but himself. _Stupid kid._

            Chase doesn’t murder him on the spot, though. He smiles –a smile that makes him look more like the dragon he truly is. His golden eyes flicker and he straightens so he can look down his nose at Jack like a predator about to devour its caught prey. This is almost worse than immediate murder.

            “ _If_ you were to refuse,” Chase begins, making it clear that he’s confident Jack will make the correct choice, “I will use your power myself. You will have no choice but to do as I bid you. You will come with me as my apprentice or my servant. It’s up to you, Jack.”

            It really _isn’t_ up to Jack, Chase’s voice and eyes say. The command is clear as day.

Jack backs against the wall. He just wants them to leave.

            He wants to sleep.

            He wants to wake up and go to class and do nothing but work for the rest of his life so he doesn’t have to think about any of this.

            He wants to be nothing.

            He is nothing.

            “This will be so much easier if you just do as we ask,” WuYa says.

            Chase is reaching for him.

            “A night with my other servants will help you change your mind, I think,” he says. There is no trace of a smile on his face now. His patience is at an end.

            Time seems to slow down as Chase reaches for him.

            Jack doesn’t want to go.

            He is _not_ a dragon.

            He’s not good or evil and he doesn’t want to be either one.

            He is nothing.

            They _can’t_ make him be something.

            As Chase’s fingertips come in contact with his skin, Jack whispers the word “No.”

            And Chases hand passes through him.

            “What—“ Chase starts, pulling his hand back.

            “Get out.” Jack growls. There is a flicker and Chase moves backward as if shoved.

            His eyes widen, but then he laughs.

            “Very good! You’ve begun to manifest your actual power. Now do you see?” he says, raising his arms.

            “Get. Out.” Jack repeats. Each word bears Chase backward. “Get out!”

            Chase’s eyes darken and he meet’s Jack’s own eyes. Whatever he sees there makes him snarl. He pulls back and strikes out at Jack but the blow never reaches Jack’s face. It rebounds off of some unseen force. Chase holds the hand delicately as if it had been burned somehow. He considers it, then raises his eyes to Jack.

            “You are behaving like a child,” he states. “Pull yourself together before I come back.”

            “What?” WuYa shrieks. “We’re letting him _go?_ ”

            “For the moment,” Chase turns to her, but he keeps his eyes on Jack. “It seems we will not be able to do much at this point in time.”

            Jack watches all of this without comment. The air around him feels electric. He can feel every hair on his body reacting even as his blood rushes through him in a way that isn’t unlike an adrenaline rush but… _shinier_ somehow. Is this what actual power feels like?

            “We are not finished, Jack Spicer. Far from it,” Chase says.

            “Yes,” Jack says, the electric feeling of power making him hold his head high. “we are.”

            “You will have to choose one side or the other eventually. You don’t get the _luxury_ of running and hiding like the coward we know you are. Not this time. Those days are over,” Chase says, moving toward the door with WuYa close behind. “You will choose. And I will be there to make sure you choose correctly. Think on that, Spicer.”

            Chase sweeps out the door, but WuYa pauses. She gives Jack one of her old disgusted glares, just as she had in the old days.

            “Don’t forget who found you first, boy. You belong to me. Do not embarrass me again, you foolish human child,” she hisses.  One last disappointed shake of the head and the old witch, too, is gone. Jack takes deep breaths and waits.

            The electric feeling does not dissipate. Penguin comes out from hiding and sniffs the air close to Jack. He gives a distressed whine but comes no closer. The cat backs up when Jack reaches toward him. Jack straightens and looks at his hands. There is no visible difference as far as he can see. He turns and goes into his bathroom, flicking on the light. He stares into the mirror. Nothing suggests that he’s any different than he was.

            Does it?

            Maybe his eyes are a little bit brighter or glowy or something.

            “Okay, okay. So if I really do have power…” Jack pauses and meets his own eyes in the mirror. “Which I’m not saying I do…how do I turn it off?”

            He puts both hands on the sink and leans in toward his reflection, waiting for the answer. Slowly, the air begins to lose its electricity and he starts to feel less on edge. A clean sort of emptiness is left behind, though the clean feeling doesn’t last for long.

            Jack turns on the shower and steps under the water without removing his clothes. He sinks to the floor with the weight of his clothing under the hot spray and leans against the wall. The water pours over him and washes the light, few-remaining traces of grease off his jeans and down the drain.

            Jack curls his knees to him and sits under the hot water for an eternity or two. There isn’t time anymore. He focuses on the feel of the hot water on his skin and there are no more dragons. He focuses on the sound of the drops beating against the tile walls and floor and there are no Xiaolin, Heylin, Good, or Evil—trying to convert him or otherwise. He stares through the water running down his face at the water swirling around the drain and there are no more people from his past that he used to long to love. There is nothing but Jack and the water and when he’s sat there for long enough, there isn’t even Jack anymore. There’s just the water—the _rat-a-tat-tat_ and the heat and the weight.

 

            At last, Jack sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things should start moving right along from here on out--let the epic Tug-O-Jack Begin! 
> 
> Thanks again for reading~!


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